Okay. The nitty gritty, people.
Nothing--absolutely NOTHING--is sacred after marriage. At this point all of my married friends and family are undoubtedly either sagely nodding in agreement or simply laughing their butts off at me, but I have to put it out there for the benefit of everyone else. You see, you thought you were raised to be modest. You thought you would be able to maintain a modicum of what's "your" time and "my" time. Oh, how wrong you were!
This occurred to me yesterday as Joe and I were getting ready to go over to a friend's house for barbeque, beer, and pool time. We had just showered. I was in the guest room; Joe was in the master bedroom. He was dressed and watching television. Correction: He was watching television in every room of the house. The show was echoing from upstairs to downstairs, which is always a little annoying (but I digress). I ran to the master bedroom in my towel to put on my swimsuit, and was about to start tugging that sucker on, when it occurred to me that no one--not even my husband--should ever see me stuffing myself into a bathing suit. It involves too much of all that converts "good nudity" into "bad nudity".
Remember that Seinfeld episode where Jerry has the girlfriend who enjoys sitting around the apartment in the buff? That was good nudity. Remember how she sneezed naked, and he broke up with her because he couldn't get the image of what it made her figure look like out of his head? Bad nudity. That Seinfeld episode has resonated with me for years.
So as I began to pull (um, tug) my one piece over my hips (red-faced, huffing and puffing), I became irrationally irritated that Joe was even in there watching t.v. (and my discomfort). I found myself saying, "Could you go downstairs, please, so I can do this without an audience?" To which he expressed that he felt I was being ridiculous and left.
Here's the thing, though. The lines have started to blur. We pee with the door open. We have conversations through the bathroom door. We walk in on one another while we're showering. Absolutely nothing is sacred anymore. But I draw the line on "bad nudity". I refuse to allow anyone to witness the horror of me squeezing into a swimsuit, Spanx, or panty hose. Even my husband.
At this point I feel that I should own up to my culpability in this regard. I may have started it all, and it's all my friend ****'s fault. You see, at one point about a year ago, she told me this funny story about how she had pranked her live-in boyfriend. He was in the shower, sudsing away. She crept stealthily into the bathroom, and flung the curtain open, screaming "A-HAAAAA!!!!" Her boyfriend proceeded to hit the deck. He screamed (a manly scream, I'm sure), and assumed the fetal position. It was hilarious. I felt inspired.
So I, too, waited until Joe was in the shower. I crept into the bathroom, and I flung open the curtain screaming like a banshee. Joe continued shampooing his hair and looked at me like I was a nutcase. "What the hell is wrong with you?" was all he asked. Oh, Joe. So many things, really. Needless to say, Operation Scare-the-Poop-Outta-Joe was a complete failure. It was also the moment. The moment I inadvertently gave the signal that it was okay to totally ignore each other's right to privacy.
Can I please have a do-over?